


all things return to shore

by courante



Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spirited Away, Drowning, M/M, Music as Magic, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements, Taiwanese Folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante
Summary: Eddy is thirteen when he takes a wrong turn in the mountains.It’s easy keeping people at a distance when you can charm your way out of obligations and move through circles without any of them ever touching your heart. All you’ve ever wanted was music, anyway, and that’s what you got, even if nothing else left belonged to you anymore.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	all things return to shore

**Author's Note:**

> idk what to call this except 'spirited away au but its a questionable fusion of jp and tw folklore' **please note** the past character death and the drowning tags. u have been warned.
> 
> **additional note on names:** because it's a spirited away au and names are important, this may?? get confusing. 'a-' and 'xiao-' are chinese diminutives, therefore: a-cheng for eddy (chen wei-cheng) & a-yao for brett (yang bo-yao), etc. romanized tw given names are most often hyphenated wades-giles style so that's what i'll be doing here too. 
> 
> anyway, on with the story!

You and I met at sea, that night.  
You have your road to take, and I, mine.  
Perhaps you’d remember,  
Or better yet, forget—  
This spark borne from the crossing of our paths.

"Serendipity" - Xu Zhimo

  * **It is August and she tells you not to go near the water.**



When his parents tell him about the trip, Eddy is ecstatic.

It’s one of those family-friend gatherings he hasn’t much use for, but he’s been missing grandma. Belle is away at camp (“it’s not fair,” she sighs at him over the phone, “But I’ll get to go next year.”) The night before departure he packs all the homework and books and pauses looking over his violin. Two weeks would be a long time for no practice.

Eddy doesn’t remember much from the flight, except when he’s jolted awake by the rough touchdown in the morning hours of the day. They go through the luggage claim, the reunion with too many chattering adults, the car rental. Someone remarks on how tall he’s grown, his scrawny limbs already red from the change in heat. It’s the same old story: the hair-ruffling, the compliments and head-shaking, the asking for him to play that _one_ song he’s grown so tired of, once they get to Uncle’s.

(He’s thirteen now, too old to be coddled like so, but some things never change.)

The window of their rental is rolled down partway, and Teresa Teng is singing about smoke and mirrors. Eddy falls asleep at one point, for a little while. 

Somewhere along the way, maybe after passing Taichung, they make a turn off the freeway for a bathroom break. And somewhere along the way, they end up here.

It wouldn't hurt to take a little walk around, his mother had said (or had he imagined it?) Surely the others would've found a place to stop. It is important to stretch oneself on a long journey. Eddy knows this.

And yet, as he stares down the long, dark tunnel ahead, he shivers.

🌊

There are no visitors to this place. Correction: there are very few visitors here of the human extraction, and you don't blame them. It's not the kind of place one would expect to return from, were it so.

And so, the concerning part: there is a boy, wandering the deserted grounds, and he is alone. So alone, in fact, that when you approach him cautiously he takes a step back, eyes bugging out in the shape of saucers as if he's never seen a stranger before.

It may have been your fault (like so many things were) for sneaking out in the middle of the day, even if they say you have reformed— some things stay the same. For a moment you are back there in the tall grass, and he is a deer caught dead in headlights.

—You remember then, what you look like to him now. That’s gotta change.

(You are— you were— fourteen. You focus on that, and things get a little better.)

It is then you finally realize what he is clutching to his chest.

"You play violin?" you blurt out, before any _hello_ or _what are you doing here_. Then you think— of course.

It is rapidly approaching dusk, and the tides are rising. The boy scrunches up his nose, as if coming into contact with something distasteful. He holds his violin case close like it’s some sort of lucky charm, perhaps in hopes that he will make you disappear.

"I don't know where my parents went," he replies. Almost like he's about to cry, or something you don’t know how to deal with. "Sorry, um, do you know where this is?"

"Uh," you say. His accent is soft and familiar and you could just about feel the world fall down around you right now. In the distance, foghorns. "Shit."

🌊

Living in Australia had been good for breeding hardiness; it's sweltering in this basement, where Eddy sits among the coals and the steam and tries very hard to get out of the way of all of those _arms_ without stepping on the production line beneath his feet. 

“You’ll be safe down here, for now. The shadows will take care of you.”

The other boy had vanished before he’d had a chance to ask further. For all the mystery surrounding this place, he’d seemed quite normal to Eddy, even if they’d spent most of the time running through an increasingly dark forest. But no, Eddy doesn’t want to think about that right now. And his name—

_(Hand in hand, running across the fast-rising shoreline, the worn brick pavement. A sense of building tension in the air, notes that have lingered too long. Something wet lunges at his feet and he’s told to keep steady, look forward, never back. Temple bells too sharp and cold for human ears._

_He is afraid but his hands are warm.)_

—A-Yao. Yes, that’s it. 

_(“No matter what happens, don’t forget your name.”)_

“You done sulking over there?”

Fascinating, watching the shadows move like that. He almost forgets to be afraid when he looks up at the looming figure, frighteningly efficient, churning out line after line after line, ink stains seeping into the wooden floorboards below. 

“It’s rude to stare, you know.”

“What are you doing?” 

They stop writing and turn to look at him, myriad eyes and creaking limbs. And then slowly, as if they have never seen someone like Eddy before, “None of your business, kiddo.”

“Do you know where my parents are?”

A heavy sigh reverberates throughout the room, deeper than the rumbles beneath the earth, trembling in his ears beyond the faint, faint sound of someone practicing on the floors above—the outside world, Eddy realizes. He had only seen the building’s silhouette beneath a dying sunset, and it had been large and imposing and nothing like he’d ever seen before, whether here or home. 

It occurs to him, perhaps belatedly or simply because he did not want to confront it fully, that he might be about to die.

“That,” the shadows tell him, solemnly, but with the tiniest hint of amusement, “is a question you should bring upstairs.”

  * **The east wind refuses to come. It is March and the catkins hang lifeless on each willow branch. And your heart is a small, lonely town…  
  
**



The flowers here bloom differently, and you knew them by other names. Orchid, begonia, spider-lily. You’ve learned how to tell time by the currents instead of the sky; it changes nothing except the growing fire inside you.

There is a performance tonight. You need to be ready. 

You shouldn’t think about things you can’t change.

“Big night, huh?” A-Rui whispers when he passes you in the hallway, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. You roll your eyes and grin and even push back against him lightly, and the pressure builds again in the pit of your stomach. Just a routine performance. No big deal. 

When you, scratchy uncomfortable uniform and all, get on the stage you see him sitting in the front row, dead center, and you freeze. 

No, concentrate. You can't fuck this up.

Eddy’s eyes follow you every step of the way, even when you steady your hand and filter out everything that had happened thus far. The orchestra becomes a distant buzz in the back of your head as your bow hits the string, and all of your being is poured into every note as it always should have been. The score in front of you becomes a blur of nothing but ink splatter as the music crescendos and the lights blind you to everything but your fingers.

You feel alive. 

When it is all over you barely register the applause as you take your bow. The parting melody is still swirling in your head as you exit the stage, heart pounding. Everything is fine and your friends congratulate you backstage as always, tousle your hair (oh, how you wish you were taller to do it back), talk about tomorrow’s practice schedule and chores.

“You want to play like that, don’t you?”

Auntie Hu is standing in the hallway, a hand on Eddy’s shoulder. He’s looking up at her in awe, a little fearful, before he spots you coming out of the door. Then his eyes light up, and your stomach drops.

“He’s awesome,” you hear Eddy say. You don’t scream, because by now you know what will happen if you do. “But I wanted to ask—”

You don’t hear the rest of the conversation as more guests flood out of the room, but in your heart you already hear the rustle of paper, the contract being drawn up. The sensation of something being ripped from your insides, twisted and spat out. Tomorrow he will have a different name, and Eddy will slip from your memory. Maybe it will be different, considering what he is, but there’s no use worrying about such things.

Turn around, walk away. It’s none of your business, really. Humans don’t find their way here often. Even when they do, it is not often one gets to leave again, whole. It’s simply how things are.

You refuse to think about the lingering warmth in the palm of your hand.

🌊

“Can you do the thing again?”

“What thing?”

“When we first met…”

“A-Cheng, focus on the score.”

He pouts but positions his bow again. They’re just doing etudes in the morning, and the practice room is stuffy in the summer heat. A-Yao is here ostensibly to help, them having been assigned partners for the day, but he hasn’t been cooperative at all.

Maybe A-Cheng shouldn’t have asked that question. He flips the page and stares at the lines intently, taking in nothing at all. _Pianissimo_ , then louder. Even so A-Yao goes in with so much power, every strike against the strings like ripping cloth, thick-rimmed glasses about to slide off his face as he leans forward to read the notes.

_Perform for me, and I’ll see that you get home._

He wishes now that his parents had given him even a shitty phone for these two weeks, but out here in the boondocks A-Cheng isn’t so sure it’d work anyway. Not when he’s…

“You know what kind of place this is, right?”

A-Yao’s voice is even, though something about it seems like he’s afraid something will burst in through the door at any moment. Through it all he’s still looking straight ahead at their sheet music, as if it had just been a routine inquiry about the weather. The midmorning sun shining through the window casts lines of light on the ground, at their feet. Beyond the closed door A-Cheng could hear the faint sound of others practicing in their rooms, if he listens hard enough. He isn’t trying to do that now, though.

“Opera house?” _Prison?_

“No,” and then quickly, “I mean, yeah. But… no. Shit. Sorry. I can’t.”

He bites his lip.

“I’m not scared of you.” A-Cheng says quietly. “Even if you’re... you know. Even if I’m— ”

“Don’t say it,” A-Yao snaps, startling him. His eyes are terrifyingly big as he rounds on A-Cheng, and there is a screech in the air that only seconds later he registers as the bow sliding so hard it surely must almost be broken. “Don’t say it. Not here.”

“But—”

“Forget about it.”

The previous cacophony melts into monotonous repetitions again, up and down, _fortissimo_ , repeat. A shadow falls over the light and out of the corner of his eye A-Cheng could see Auntie Hu peering in, nodding curtly as she continues on her way down the hall. He feels like he’s getting the hang of this piece, maybe.

They take turns flipping the page. Sometimes his fingers would brush against A-Yao’s when they accidentally reach for the stand at the same time, but neither of them flinch away. There are too many things A-Cheng wants to ask about: the weirdly familiar accent, the way he moves like he wants everybody and nobody to see him at once, the jagged scar creeping its way up his neck.

When he was younger and more impressionable Belle had tried to scare him with stories of drop-bears and yowies and walking trees, and _moxinga_. Small things that would grab at you in the tall grass, make you spin round and round until you lose your way and starve in the wilderness. They didn’t look human at all, most times, but at this point A-Cheng isn’t sure if that means anything anymore.

“Thanks,” he says instead, “For saving me back there.”

It’s warm in here, but not uncomfortably so. The kind of feeling A-Cheng gets when he thinks about Grandma in her faded green apron, the spiderweb cracks in the kitchen of the old apartment down by the pier. He can’t quite make out her face anymore, come to think about it. 

Not surprising, really. He’s always had a terrible memory.

🌊

You were never the best one here. That’s fine; you know life is unfair. As long as you can still feel the reverberations within you, everything is as it should have been.

(You barely remember how you died anymore, only that it was so cold and the last thing you wished for was something to hold onto.)

From the moment you crossed the threshold willingly into this place you’ve belonged to the shadows that stalk the grand hallways and creaking floors. Sometimes you wonder if, in life, you had always been this rash, or if things have changed so radically since your feet could not touch the ground anymore. But those are foolish things, past memories. 

“A-Yao, I have something I need you to do.”

Nothing ever fades completely; they recede just enough that it wounds you every time you try to remember. 

It goes like this, in Auntie Hu’s care: make her happy and you are safe, at least for a while. Oh, there are rumors from the older children that this place used to be _different_ , when Ling Ling was around, but he's not so sure he believes it. A world where people can come and go as they please, where he does not have to cherish each and every chance he got to see the outside seems out of reach, a terrifying dream.

A-Cheng is still sleeping when you wake in the morning, just as the sky begins to lighten. He's a messy sleeper, sprawled across the lower bunk bed with long limbs askew and covers almost drooping to the floor. Nothing at all like the painfully shy kid who tagged along behind you the first week here, eyes wide at the creatures passing through the halls, at those who still looked like themselves but just a little off. But he's a fast learner, eager to please, and that’s always a good thing around these parts. You even played your favorite duet with him, and he'd picked it up like it was nothing.

(There is something terribly sad about the way he plays it; and you aren’t sure if it’s the loneliness of being freshly gone, or if you’d imagined it all to yourself.)

You reach over and tuck a corner of the coverlet under A-Cheng’s leg, and he makes a small noise, rolling over to let tousled black hair obscure his face. You smile despite yourself, and then you are out the door.

Down the mountain, into the village outskirts you go. Dogs bark at you as you pass unseen, and the chickens crowd their cages away from you. The rising summer heat doesn't bother you anymore, though you wish— 

The riverbed is dry most times out of the year. You stand in the middle of cracked rock and sediment, violin in hand. Perhaps there was a better way of doing this, in the past, but this is the only way you know how.

Andante to start, clouds slowly building up. _La Mer_ , then _Blue Danube_. What do people listen to anymore, on the outside? You play a few bars of the only song you remember from _that year_ , but it only stings your fingers. _Focus_.

The willow-trees sway soundly on the banks of the river, dancing to your music. In time comes the rain, each droplet singing but never reaching you.

(A long, long time ago, there was a boy, and he was playing in a moment of respite, and the sky was so, so dark.)

The river comes bellowing, and you feel the wind beneath your feet.

  * **What would I exchange to warm you for a thousand years?**



"Relax your wrist," Xiao-Yu says, reaching over to correct his grip. "You've been tense all morning."

“Like this?”

“Yes, exactly.” He seems pleased as he does as told, pressing tactically, letting the motion carry the final trills home. “Much better! But this isn’t your debut, right? Since it’s for two—”

Xiao-Yu isn’t supposed to be here, really; he’s supposed to be practicing with A-Rui, but he’s off entertaining some sudden guests in the lobby. A-Cheng doesn’t know where his own partner’s gone, only that one of the older kids had come into the boys’ room earlier to inform him of the day’s schedule. _Just practice yourself, A-Yao is busy._

"No," A-Cheng replies, reaching for the booklet. "She has something picked out already."

"Of course," Xiao-Yu sighs, standing up and slipping off the wooden stool. His voice is quiet as he glances at the door. "Which one _does_ she want, anyway?"

"No it's, um…” he squints at the sheet music, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

Xiao-Yu looks at it and—eyebrows raised, perhaps the worst of signs. Understandable, really. A-Cheng has no idea what he’s doing, at this point, with these unreadable notes.

"Oh," he says, and A-Cheng could already feel the sympathy in the atmosphere between them. In the distance, the bells grows louder. He hates the sound; it rings too bright, every note a dagger to his ears. "That's quite ambitious."

"...Do you think if I mess it up, she'll let me go anyway?"

Something shatters. A-Cheng looks up and sees nothing, for a moment; Xiao-Yu materializes so fast that he almost screams, only to be stopped by the fear in his eyes. In the corner, the stool lies in pieces. 

“You—you don’t want to do that,” he stammers. “Did A-Yao not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That if you mess this up, she’ll—”

Auntie Hu is away, someone told him. For a while, at least, A-Cheng won’t have to hide away whenever he feels the floor start rumbling again.

His debut is in two days. Too little time, too long of a wait. His fingers hurt and he can’t focus on what he’s supposed to be practicing and the trilling of birds fill him up every time he looks at his violin. Someone used to tell him it would be alright, that every boat will float back to shore, but he can’t recall their voice anymore.

The hallways are narrow and long, reminding him of— where is it again? Not the place far across the ocean. It doesn’t matter; A-Cheng walks back to the dormitories as other pupils flit past him, ones with wings and ones that he can’t see the heads of as much as he stretches his neck to see, ones that he’s not sure can speak, carrying instruments he knows and ones he will never see again.

He’s not afraid of them anymore, but his footsteps quicken all the same. Frustration, maybe, but more than that. _A-Yao, where are you?_

Someone is performing today, just simple, routine entertainment. Nobody notices him slipping in through the back door, not the few guests sitting up front or the choir or the kid pianist on stage. It takes a few bars for A-Cheng to register he’s heard this many times before, on the radio, on the television, in convenience stores. He’s so tired, he might as well fall asleep in here.

“Let my love follow the flowing water, endlessly pouring out its feelings for you—”

A-Cheng opens his eyes and the auditorium is filling with water. It must just be an effect, he thinks, even as the hems of his khaki uniform trousers stick to his ankles and over his knees. Magic tricks to keep the audience entertained. He’s learned to not be surprised at the things that happen here, away from where he used to be.

(Water, rushing in the back of his head. The skies are gathering gray outside each gap between the windows outside. Where had he seen this before?)

🌊

Wrong, wrong, wrong, everything is wrong and you can’t see clearly anymore, the sky above you, the ground beneath you.

Of course. What a stupid, stupid decision to make. Auntie Hu should’ve found someone older than you, more experienced, more fitting—then, perhaps you were simply more expendable.

It was such a small thing, just lying there in plain sight. Cradled in the palm of your hand harmlessly, bright and golden. Warm, radiating calm amongst the chaos you’ve already caused too much of.

_Now, be a dear—Ling Ling won’t be out for very long, you know. You wouldn’t want to be there when she finds out what you’ve done._

Yes. You’ve never done anything to protect someone else, always yourself. It’s easy keeping people at a distance when you can charm your way out of obligations and move through circles without any of them ever touching your heart. All you’ve ever wanted was music, anyway, and that’s what you got, even if nothing else left belonged to you anymore.

The rosin was bitter, but soon you only taste blood. 

🌊

A-Cheng volunteers for cleaning duty afterwards, to chase the wandering thoughts away. The auditorium is spotless as it had been, after everyone had left, and everything is in its place. He’d gotten a little too excited, perhaps, at the prospect of using music in the way people do here, without anyone supervising him.

—And now, maybe he’s so tired he’s begun hallucinating things too, ghosts and spirits of the past aside.

"Where do I return these keys to?”

He steps away from the door and a shadow passes by him, outside. All of the pupils have already gone off to lunch—A-Cheng looks up, and is met with a thousand stares.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he whispers, before something barrels straight into him, and he hears the waves—

They tumble into a room A-Cheng has never been to before, but one look at his surroundings tells him that this is probably not somewhere he should be. The grand chandelier dangling above his head glows bright in the early afternoon sun, and when A-Cheng looks down the grand woven carpet is already stained with blood.

“What the fuck,” he says again, panic rising in his throat. The room does not answer him, nor do the jewels on the desk, or the carved cypress cabinets. “Who—”

The creature thrashes suddenly beneath A-Cheng, startling him so much for a moment he forgets he’s been gripping so tightly his fingers were digging into its scales. He’s never seen a dragon before, of course. If that is what he is looking at. Not before this entire mess that landed him god knows _where_ this is.

_—Don’t run too far! You’ll fall in the water, hey..._

Its scales glisten in the golden sunlight, white and black and dark splotchy red, all the way down its body. The scent of iron lingers in his nostrils as he loosens his grip immediately, staring at the trail of blood that led its way to the now-shut doors. Harder to ignore still is the feeling of intense nausea washing over him, everything whooshing to the forefront of his mind—

_Look out!_

He spins around and there is a stranger standing there, surveying the room from the edge of the carpet, and A-Cheng freezes.

“So this is what she’s been doing while I’ve been away…”

The girl can’t be much older than him, but something about her feels off, unnatural. Then A-Cheng sees her raise a hand—translucent, fuzzy, spazzing a little. She isn’t real, he realizes, not in the way that none of his experiences here are, but that she is very, very far away.

She sees A-Cheng then, and she blinks slowly, as if only now registering what she’s seeing. “Ah. But you shouldn’t be here.”

“Who are you?” he asks, gulping. Yeah, A-Cheng’s in trouble now, big time.

“Your friend there has stolen something of mine, I’m afraid.” There’s a sort of sadness in her eyes as she looks at him and the wreckage all around, and A-Cheng can’t look away. She bends down and inspects something on the carpet, then tilts her head at him thoughtfully. “It would be nice if you could return—”

_Slam!_

She disappears, whatever projection that had existed cut short by the sudden slam of the dragon’s tail. He yells out but it’s too late; everything spirals as they jolt forward towards the fireplace. It’s all A-Cheng could do to hold on to dear life as the creature beneath him thrashes wildly, in pain or in desperation, falling down into deep void below...

🌊

_You don’t remember the exact date, only that it was summer._

_It was supposed to be a weekend of respite away from the city. You’d arrived here a week ago and the jetlag had just been starting to ease up on your body. It was always someone else’s idea; you’d just wanted to stay inside and practice. Summer can get so hot here._

_Go up the mountain. Follow the path. The trees were so tall you can’t remember seeing their crowns. Your brother had run off somewhere up ahead, and you could hear your father’s exasperated remarks._

Can you go find your brother? He’ll get lost up there.

_You don’t remember dying, only that it happened in an instant._

_You’d found him near the waterfall. It was a long walk from the parking lot you had wanted to go back to quickly, and maybe you hadn’t been so careful. There was a mossy rock you didn’t see, and that was that._

_No use dwelling on past things._

Someone is singing to you. Or maybe it’s crying. It’s terrible, yowling noise, but your veins are aflame and there is nothing more painful than the knowing that even in death there are still things you will never get away from. The song seems comforting then, almost.

It is dark where you are, you think, through the hazy mist of pain. Something warm is wrapped around you and the curse does not cut so deep anymore.

You must be dreaming, then.

“Is he going to live?” you hear him say.

_These were bedtime stories: the little people who lived in the mountains, hiding in the grass. Grabbing at ankles and laughing at misfortune. Things his mother and aunts used to scare him to bed with, back in those days._ If you know what’s good for you...

_Some things you will never find an explanation for. You were in the tall grass when you saw him, such a small thing, climb over the big rock, above the water. He was looking at the reflection of the fish, the leaves drifting through tiny waves. Something like that. It doesn’t matter._

_The air was still. All children know is to bruise themselves and fall, and you didn’t even have to lift a finger. His hair was messy and his laughter was like silver bells and you thought, somewhat giddily, that this was your chance._

“Does it matter to you?”

“I have to return it,” he’s saying, desperation leaking into his tone. “Do you know how to—”

“I wouldn’t try to find her if I were you.”

“I have to.”

Shuffling sounds, and what sounds like a huff. You’ve never heard them sound like this before, not during all of the times you’ve come here for shelter. “Not before you show me what you’ve learned.”

Something something, belief shifts all things. Clatter, click, the familiar screechy noises of tuning.

A plaintive note. Your muscles relax, a little. It unlocks inside you, bit by bit, the more he plays, never rushing despite the heat. The sound is not perfect, the cadence a little off in places, but nevertheless—

You think: _I know this, from back then._ And then it all comes rushing out.

(You don’t know how long the convulsions lasted, only it stopped way too long after you’d stopped thinking about it. By the end of it you still can’t see anything, and you’re sure that he’s cowering in the corner, away from you.)

More shuffling sounds. A sigh, weary and knowing. You are dimly aware that there is something being pushed up against you. Hands on your body, whichever one it is now—you haven’t been here long enough that you could adjust that at will, in this kind of state. _What are you but a mirage, really?_ Crumpled paper in small hands. The glow of something golden and mellow beyond your closed eyelids.

His lips brush against your neck, an imperceptible caress. Perhaps the fever has made you delusional as well.

“Come back alive,” the shadows tell him, _order him_ , and you don’t remember anything else after that.

  * **In the night, in my dreams, who is it holding that lantern by the harbor, asking after me?**



“You sure you know the way?” 

He's never seen A-Rui look worried before, not like that, though god knows what kind of disaster would have to occur for his smile to disappear entirely. The water is much too clear beneath their makeshift plastic boat, and A-Cheng could see fish shimmering inside that he’s learned now not to touch.

He bites his lip. "I don’t want you getting into trouble too."

“I never get in trouble,” A-Rui replies, and winks at him. “Get me a souvenir, hey? Just maybe not one from Ling Ling.”

A-Cheng watches him paddle away from the steps of the train station, the crumbling concrete wet and shimmering as he ascends each step. Nobody else is waiting there, not on the faded blue plastic seats or on the long benches in the back. The weathered sign has characters with too many strokes for A-Cheng to read, and he’s sure he wouldn’t know where it’s supposed to be, anyway.

From this vantage point he could see the opera house clearly: it is midafternoon and the building is silent, large and wooden, a little fuzzy in the heat mirage. The train ticket burns in his pocket as the ground starts to rumble, the faintest sound of a steam engine reaching his ears. 

_When you get on the train, ignore the other passengers. Do not interact with them. You hear me?_

Easy enough tasks. The conductor in their large, olive green overcoat barely looks at A-Cheng as they clip the ticket, and he hurries to an empty seat on the wooden benches.

There is no air conditioning and he wants to die.

The sun is setting, painting the river on both sides of the track a shimmering orange-red. The train calls at every stop, and he tries his hardest to not count each time the sliding doors open and the disembodied conductor’s voice screeches out each unfamiliar name: _Dashui, Pingxi, Kezilin..._

_Don’t talk._

He squeezes his eyes close and holds his violin case close; maybe it’d been a stupid idea to bring it, but it’s comforting in a way. Somehow it hadn’t been damaged in the fall, and A-Yao…

_Don’t look._

Someone sits next to him and starts talking, rambling away in some nonexistent language. The rosin is warm inside his pocket, even when he does not think about it; A-Cheng had looked at it before he boarded, wondering what about this had caused all the fuss. But maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe all he needs to know is where to return it.

_Don’t listen._

On the seventh stop the train passes through what feels like the largest station yet, rumbling slow, but the slosh of water outside does not cease. He does not open his eyes but he could smell it, the incense wafting in through open windows. The jingle of bronze bells and petrifying wail of the suona, chanting crowds, barbecue smoke. A temple fair, A-Cheng realizes. All around him the chatter grows louder, louder, louder, a thousand cicadas taking flight. 

Above the droning of the crowd is a single scream: _Come home. Come home. Come home._

He reaches back and shuts the window with a click, the chipped wood leathery and rough on his fingers.

He’s still shaking when the train pulls into the edge of the world, but when A-Cheng disembarks he could already hear, in the distance, a familiar trill.

🌊

_“You know, A-Yao, you don’t have to pretend so hard all the time.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_“Stupid.” He leans in and whispers in your ear, shyly, teasingly. “I know you don’t want me to leave.”_

Buried deep inside your skin is the knowledge that the only way you have to leaving this place would be paved in fire and regret. That is the heart of the matter: you strike a deal with the devil and you play until there is nothing left of you to hold even a bow in place.

It did not use to matter so much how you would go, disintegrate into the wind like all music eventually does…

Auntie Hu is waiting for you in front of her mangled office. Her eyes are aflame and all you want to do is lunge at her, whatever happens be damned. And then someone grabs your arm and tells her _it’s fine, Auntie, it’s no problem, we’ll get it back_. Xiao-Yu’s voice is polite and firm and you somehow wish in that moment he is not here, you know he is better than this place, all of them are. A-Rui is standing on your other side and he’s saying, with all the weight of being the oldest among the kids, _There are people watching, Auntie, please don’t do this right now._

There’s people crowding around in the hallways now, other children and guests you don’t recognize, and Auntie’s face is stone as she claps her hands and calls everyone back to their chores.

You bite back the bitterness in your throat and say, lying through your teeth, “I’ll take responsibility.”

The crowd disperses and she says, fangs bared, “Get it back, or else.”

“Yeah, go get ‘im!”

“Shh, you’re gonna wake everyone up!”

You hope the two waving on the balcony below see you smile as you turn towards the night sky.

You had not crossed the bridge to make friends. Auntie Hu had given you a choice when you let the child slip through your hands all those years ago, her voice disdainful. _Even this place is too good for wandering spirits such as you, too stubborn to let their souls be called back home, too soft to curse another with your existence._

That did not matter to you, and those words quickly slipped out of your mind. Then again, there is an exception for every rule. And for you, there is one last thing you want to do. 

🌊

“Do you hear it, Eddy? The wind.”

At first, nothing. Then, as surely as Ling Ling had said, the wind is picking up outside, howling up the trees. The steam from their teacups jitter with each change in tempo, tempered by swirling leaves rustling against the rattling outer door. It’s like a symphony, Eddy thinks, and before he knows it they have winded down again.

The clock on the wall is frozen in time, just like everything else here. Ling Ling is watching him, a small smile on her lips as she slips the rosin back into its pouch, placing it into her violin case. 

“You were brave to come alone.”

“Nah,” Eddy says. “I don’t think—”

He stops mid-sentence and she presses a finger to her lips in an entirely mischievous, devilish way: “It’s okay. I’m not going to eat you, I think.”

“You think?”

The door rattles then, impatiently. Ling Ling sighs and drops her hand, looking towards the neat row of shoes and coathanger near the welcome mat. It had surprised Eddy just how normal this place looked when he walked in earlier, sparse and neatly kept, potted plants in the corners. There are no monsters here, except those he would trick himself to believe in. She tilts her head and gestures at him. “Play me something before you go? Whatever you want. I’ve been gone for far too long, it seems.”

Eddy stands up, case in hand, and gives her a long look. “Just one.”

The first note of _Navarra, Op. 33_ breaks down the door; more accurately, it swings open just as his bow hits the string, and everything is up in the air in an instant, sheet music and pens and Eddy’s hair. For a moment he could see nothing but the night sky, the curling ivy over the door frame.

“...A-Yao?”

“Remember,” Ling Ling says from the door, looking up at them from her doorway. Eddy can’t see her face all that clearly anymore, but her voice is stronger than the wind. “Don’t forget to practice! I’ll see you soon!”

And then they’re off— the sky a deep blue expanse, moon half-hidden behind the clouds. The river below them flows slow and steady, shimmering, waves pattering against the train-tracks now mostly submerged beneath the waters. 

“Is everything okay now?” he asks, and receives no answer but a swish of the dragon’s tail. The clouds part slowly, so slowly, but Eddy could see the moon in the river clearly now. 

When he was younger, his mother used to tell him a story about the poet who drowned trying to reach it. Funny story to think about sometimes. Not now though, ten thousand feet in the air, violin case strapped to his back, himself clinging on to the back of some mythological creature he’s sure he will never see again, after…

After...

_—_ Thank god, _Eddy hears his mother say, her hands frantic as she wraps a blanket around his small shoulders._ You could’ve ended up like that boy.

_He is five and everything is cold. It never occurs to him that he could be dying, submerged in glass, the world eerily silent. The fish dart away from him as soon as he hits the water, and it feels as if he sinks for a long, long time. The river had not seemed so deep from above._

_In the translucent depths a pale hand reaches for him, and he grasps at it, flailing._

_And then there is nothing there. Eddy hears a laugh, then another, and then he could not hear anymore._

I can’t— I can’t—

Are you there—? 

“You know,” he says slowly, looking up ahead. Eddy could not make out the opera house yet, not in the distance between the mountains and the rivers. The scales are cool beneath his skin, and he presses his face into A-Yao’s long dark mane. “I almost drowned once, when I was five. I don’t remember much but... it was really scary.”

The wind slows. They drift slowly among the clouds, dragon and boy, river and moon. 

_Eddy starts crying then, though nobody could hear him beneath the waves. The water rushes his lungs and swirls in his nostrils, pulling him deeper, deeper. And then a push catches him, almost frantically._

—I —I didn’t mean it.

Hey, please don’t die.

_His head breaks through the water and he gasps for air as his father grabs his flailing arms, pulling him safely atop the smooth boulders lining the river._

We shouldn’t ever have come here _, his mother is saying, wringing her hands._ Like that boy, he used to live down the street—

In the water, in the dark, there was a face. As he looked back before he reached the surface, Eddy had seen him. The smell of mossy rock and clear springwater, summer flowers, the faintest scent of ash. Not just back there anymore, but here, in front of him, real.

“—It was you, wasn’t it? You pushed me ashore.”

It had rained that day on the way home, on the way to the airport, and he could never ever remember why.

“—Brett. Yang Bo-yao. Your name was on the radio—”

The words had scarce left his mouth entirely when the air scatters beneath him, ten thousand glittering lights spread over the rapidly fleeing clouds. So suddenly had the weight below him vanished that he does not even cry out as he descends; Eddy closes his eyes instinctively at the sudden rush of air as he falls, hands reaching out towards the vastness of the sky.

Someone catches them, fingers interlocking with his as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Eddy opens his eyes in surprise and sees him then, not as what he saw the first day beyond the bridge, but as he were back in the practice room—Brett, completely human and all, his mouth half-parted.

“You remember,” is all he says, and it’s all Eddy could do to not let go from surprise, or worry, or really—the overwhelming emotions of that one summer day from too long ago. _This is real_ , the slender fingers intertwined in his, the relief in Brett's face, the moonlight glinting off his glasses.

“I couldn’t remember, but now I do.”

“Thought you would never forgive me,” Brett yells over the wind, or at least that’s what Eddy thinks he says. If the glistening near the corner of his eyes are tears—

“I was never mad at you!” he yells back, though however much of that reaches Brett he doesn’t know. They pull together as gravity takes hold, faster, faster, but Eddy isn’t afraid anymore. The night remains clear as ever as they glide through the air just a few feet above the river, waves parting smoothly in their wake.

His heart sings like some strange birdsong, under the inexplicable warmth of a summer night and another body close to his. It is all so strange, Eddy thinks—but he does not have time to dwell on it, because he is laughing, and mingled in that laughter is Brett’s voice, soothing and beautiful, and for a single moment he wishes they would freeze in time.

But dawn is just yet breaking, and they still have a ways to go.

By the time they arrive, hand in hand, to the steps of the opera house where everyone is waiting, it feels to Eddy he’s already been soaring for an eternity.

🌊

There’s a sort of condensed anxiety in the air as they approach Auntie Hu—it seems most of the children have turned out for the show, silent and watching on, some with their instruments, some without. A-Rui’s at the piano, a curious sight, even more so considering it has no place being out here in the open. He doesn’t look all too pleased, but then again, neither would you be.

“Well?” She asks, and you look at her with all the confidence you could muster. “Where is it?”

“It wasn't yours to take,” Eddy blurts out, before any expletives could come out of your mouth, and the children gasp. “You were stealing from Ling Ling.”

Instinctively you stand in front of him as Auntie Hu lunges forward, stopping only because of hands in the crowd tugging her back. The look on her face is something you never want to see again, but you manage to keep your gaze steady as she roars at you. “You—”

“Leave him alone,” you say, unmoving, your voice low.

You could feel Eddy’s hands trembling as he touches your shoulder, and you shake your head.

“I promised I’d play,” he replies in a small voice. Then, louder and firmer, sidestepping you: “You said you’ll let me go home if I play, didn’t you?”

Auntie Hu’s yellow eyes flicker towards him, incredulous.

“Play, then,” she spits. "And I'll be the judge of that."

The air is crisp and hot and you think you can almost imagine the clack-clack of the temple guards with their shackles, the rustle of weathered sleeves. Eddy glances at you as he opens his violin case tentatively, and you never take your eyes off sharp claws and sharper fangs. 

You have never fought for anything in before, not in life, not after, but you don’t leave his side this time.

Everyone is watching Eddy, fingers shaking and all, gazing at nothing in particular as he shifts the violin under his chin. _No, this won’t do,_ you want to scream, but all you do is look up and meet A-Rui’s subtly conspiratory nod just before he turns back to the piano. 

The first note you hear is— something. You had never even attempted playing this piece with any of your previous partners before, and in your heart you know it is a farce, that this could only have ever ended one day. If Eddy were alone, that is.

But they are transfixed, the audience and the river, despite whatever errors float in and out of your ears. Each imperfection dances into view only to be chased out by his stubborn persistence, edging on the music one bar at a time. Out of the corner of your eye there is movement; Xiao-yu is on the balcony and he’s holding the violin you left in the dorm. 

Auntie Hu is pacing, pacing, pacing. She has never done this in another performance before for as long as you remember, and you take that as a threat.

A lull happens as Eddy’s bow almost slips out of his hand at the end of a phrase. You raise your hand and— 

The ground rumbles as Auntie Hu lunges at him, every pretense at evaluation dropped. You run forward and Eddy steps back in surprise, his eyes round as saucers. Someone screams and the wind is upon you and you almost don’t hear the _Hey, catch!_ coming your way, but your hand tightens and the sure grip of your bow has never been so exhilarating to assume.

They are all looking at you now, but you only have eyes for him.

“Eddy!”

Eddy has surely heard it many times before, in the practice rooms, down the halls, maybe even in his dreams. He looks back at you and then—you feel it, the morning sun. 

A-Rui is already there on the piano, his fingers flying across the keys as you and Eddy pull down, a high, sweet note escaping from beneath your fingers.

“This isn’t— this isn’t— ”

The crowd disperses as she starts screaming, as the music intensifies—you don’t know anymore, whether Eddy knows what’s happening, whether you understand the gravity of the situation yourself. That whatever brief respite had been granted to you could always be taken away in an instant, but only if you let it.

And so your fingers burn with every note you pluck, every string you hit, and the sunlight is much, much too bright. _No, keep steady._ Even with the lights dancing under your eyelids you can see the cracks in the ground widening, and the audience is crowding around and around and—

Eddy is crying again, you can hear over both of your frenzied playing. It was always going to be this crying that would be the end of you.

“Keep going, we’re almost there!”

“But you’re—”

Maybe you pull for a little too long, as the wave comes crashing down: there was a painting like that you saw once, in a museum somewhere too far in the recesses of your mind to process. _Navarra_ is not meant to end like this; nothing is, but between the both of you, under the yawning curve of the river over your heads—

“Eddy.”

You can’t hear him anymore, nor see so clearly the realization dawning on his face. Outside, someone is screaming your name, but it is not yours to claim anymore.

“I’m glad I met you again,” you tell him, your lips curling up to a tired smile, and then it is over.

🌊

He had read that book in class once, a couple summers ago. Something about birds that can sing so magnificently only at the moment they expire. It’s sort of a silly story, he thinks, but some part of it, the part where you only show what you can do when cornered, that is real.

Eddy sits by the banks of the river, his violin case pulled close to his chest, as always. Brett sits beside him, watching the waters recede.

“You know,” he says, “You did good back there.”

“Thanks,” Eddy replies. He stares at his reflection in the water, shimmering, shadowy. “It was—I’ve never felt like that before. Even if I fucked up a lot.”

“Nah. We both did, but it’s okay.”

“Will I see you again?”

Eddy knows the answer before it slips out of his mouth, unwillingly. Thirteen is old enough to know that many things don’t last forever, as much as one wants them to. Old enough to know that it’s time to leave when one becomes unwelcome in a place, for the time being.

He stands up.

“It was never about what piece you play, or how you performed. You bring music to that place and it gives you a brief respite before letting you move on, on your own terms. That was what it was supposed to be like, when Ling Ling was there.”

Brett’s still staring at the water as he talks, and Eddy takes the whole image in: the gentle curves of his face and slant of his shoulder, the lines of his arms and bent of his fingers. The silhouette almost half-translucent in the sunlight, wavering. Something to commit to memory, even one as faulty as his.

“She’ll come back now, won’t she? After we…”

“Yeah.”

_I won’t be there to see it, though,_ hangs over them, unspoken. Brett looks up, and their eyes meet through glasses slightly broken. Eddy reaches out and pulls him upright, even though all this time his hand is threatening to slip through.

“I think you should go home now,” Brett says, ostensibly lighthearted, but something cracks in his voice. Eddy had never noticed how long his eyelashes were before, not until now. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re still looking for you.”

Eddy opens his mouth, half in protest, but he doesn’t get very far in doing that before Brett reaches up and pulls him into a kiss.

He’s not sure what it’s supposed to feel like—he’s never kissed anyone before, save for his mom. If it was at all that great like what TV makes it out to be. Brett’s lips are smooth and Eddy could taste hawksbeard and lily, and salt. He’s not the only crybaby around, that’s for certain. Everything catches in his throat and he leans into it, eyes closed, trying his hardest to not make a sound. 

“I want to hear you play again, Brett,” Eddy whispers as they finally pull apart, and barely registers Brett reaching up to wipe at the top of his cheek. The sun hangs high now, and every shadow beneath his feet seems to congregate into one spot.  
  
“You will,” he says, grinning. Eddy could hardly hear him anymore, in the wind. “Turn around. I want to show you something.”

  
☀️  
  


When Eddy comes to he is alone and the river is dry, exposed sediment. There is no opera house in the distance—no anything, only the forest in the distance and the deserted tunnel from where he came. 

Faintly, he hears the sound of people, and maybe they are shouting his name. Well—he can’t really be sure. Time flows different here, and he is a little disoriented.

Out of the corner of his eye is a brilliant flare, the sun’s rays hitting just at the right angle. Eddy bends down to pick up a pair of glasses: worn, cracked, dark-rimmed. He has never had the need for glasses before, but they feel right and warm in his hands.

He starts down the old redstone path then, skipping the tiles one by one, birdsong in every step. 

**Author's Note:**

> some notes!! about the lore!!  
> \- auntie hu is a pun of tiger mom + [虎姑婆](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E8%99%8E%E5%A7%91%E5%A9%86) (link in cn), a tiger demon that eats misbehaving children, similar to the krampus.  
> \- [moxinga](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E9%AD%94%E7%A5%9E%E4%BB%94) (link in cn) are prankster spirits that lead people astray in rural areas, oftentimes described as nature spirits, spirits of dead children, or people who died unnatural deaths. some stories mention them tricking people to take places of the living they come across in order to reincarnate. they can also take many varied forms depending on the area where the legend is told.  
> \- ling ling is ling ling. as usual. ~~i may or may not have based this verison of her on chloe?~~
> 
> paragraph break sources (all translations done by me, some artistic liberties taken):  
> II: 〈錯誤〉- 鄭愁予 / III: [牽絲戲](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6YobfNjeqc) \- 銀臨+Aki / IV: [盲眼畫師](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ic4olkaH9po) \- 河圖
> 
> also for good measure: my favorite version of [green island serenade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0DgtPmZXSE) from vienna teng.


End file.
